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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23845765">Taking Care of Beej-Ness</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebunny131/pseuds/werebunny131'>werebunny131</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown &amp; King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Beej has a potty-mouth and a temper, Dealing With Trauma, Don't crowd-source your exorcisms, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control Aftermath &amp; Recovery, Multi, Psychological Trauma, Slight Rape-Analogous Language</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:20:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,970</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23845765</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebunny131/pseuds/werebunny131</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After a run-in with ghost-hunters meddling in things they don't understand, the Maitland-Deetzs must pic up the pieces.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Adam Maitland/Barbara Maitland, Beetlejuice &amp; Charles Deetz &amp; Delia Deetz &amp; Lydia Deetz &amp; Adam Maitland &amp; Barbara Maitland, Charles Deetz/Delia Deetz, Light Beetlejuice/Adam/Barbara</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>107</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Beetlejuice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic is the culmination of many ideas in a looooong Discord chat. I cannot take credit for all of the ideas and story beats, only the collection of them and the addition of connectivity from one idea to the next. It has been polished up for the BeetlejuiceBigBang, but all props to the Beetlevibes Discord.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey </em>
</p><p>There was something in his head.</p><p>He knew there was something. He could feel it. Something leftover from whatever had gone down in the attic the other day. Whatever that asshole with the youtube channel had done to him, something had gotten left behind. He couldn’t remember all of it (any of it really, but when he said that everyone had gotten a weird look on their faces) but he was pretty sure fire had been involved? Unless his nose had wandered off again, he knew the scent of burned pages when he smelled it. That should have taken care of whatever had gotten a grip on him.</p><p>
  <em> obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey </em>
</p><p>Right?</p><p>But there were still these...moments...Little gaps in the day where he knew something had happened, but couldn’t remember what. Delia had asked him to float a dish onto a high shelf for her and the next thing he knew, she was finishing thanking him. Adam asked him to hold something, and suddenly he was taking it back, another task already accomplished. He’d done whatever they had asked of him, but he couldn’t remember what it was.</p><p>
  <em> obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey </em>
</p><p>There was something in his head.</p><p>If he could just focus on it hard enough, he could rip it out. He’d done it before (he had?) he could do it again no problem. </p><p>The only issue was focusing.</p><p>Focusing was not his strong suit. Chaos was his strong suit. Striped was his strongest smelling suit. Disturbing the Peace was his favorite lawsuit. Chimneys were his favorite soo--</p><p>
  <em>obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey </em>
</p><p>...Wait. Shit. He’d totally lost his train of thought. Wasn’t there something he was supposed to be doing?</p><p>
  <em>obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey </em>
</p><p>There was something he had to do.</p><p>He just needed someone to tell him. He <em> wanted </em> someone to tell him.</p><p>“Beetlejuice?”</p><p>He blinked and looked around. He’d wandered up to the attic again. He kept doing that. The Maitlands were sitting on the couch, Adam reading an old newspaper, Barbara sewing up a tear in one of Lydia’s dresses. They were so boringly domestic it made his eyes water. Barbara could melt an entire VHS after some practice, but she held the delicate layers of the dress with careful hands. Adam could possess an entire skeletal audience, but he still got up off the couch to get the next issue of old news.</p><p>What dorks.</p><p>(he loved them)</p><p>Shut up.</p><p>(so much)</p><p>Barbara was still giving him a look, part welcoming, part concerned. (how do they fit that many emotions on one face?) “Are you all right?”</p><p>“Huh? Oh! Yeah! No, I’m great! Just uh...seeing what the two lamest lovebirds were up to.” He stuck his face directly over the top of Adam’s newspaper. “Still being boring?”</p><p>Adam was fighting a smile. “Certainly trying to be.”</p><p>“Laaaaaaaame! C’mon guys! Sandy’s mating season is almost over and I think a welcome home banner is still a great idea!”</p><p>“The banner is a good idea, Beetlejuice,” Barbara said. “Writing ‘Congrats on the Banging’ is not.”</p><p>“Hey, ‘Congrats on the Fucking’ was my first suggestion!”</p><p>“That is not better.”</p><p>“Says you.” He handly won the argument by sticking his tongue out and wiggling his hands beside his head. But he still wasn’t going to actually make the banner until they said yes, because--</p><p>Because…</p><p>
  <em>obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey </em>
</p><p>“Beetlejuice?”</p><p>“Huh?” He blinked again. Barbara was giving him that concerned look again. (they all were. all the time.)</p><p>“Are you...sure you’re okay? You seem a little out of it.”</p><p>“Maybe you need a nap?” Adam offered. The demon made a derisive noise.</p><p>“No way! I slept for aaaaaages! You deadbeats may be all for doing nothing for hours at a time, but I have much better things to do than stare at my eyelids!” </p><p>Barbara folded up the dress and sewing and put it to the side before patting the couch in between herself and Adam. “Beetlejuice, sit down.”</p><p>
  <b> <em>OBEY</em> </b>
</p><p>He was on the couch.</p><p>When did he get on the couch?</p><p>
  <em> he was happy to be on the couch </em>
</p><p>The Maitlands were doing that thing with the eyes that they did to communicate psychically (or whatever couples did) and their expressions weren’t happy ones.</p><p>“Beetlejuice...what does white mean?”</p><p>He blinked heavily, trying to get his bearings back. “Uh...for what? In China and Japan it means death, but Americans got it in their head that it means virginity or something. Hah! What a waste!”</p><p>“No,” Adam cut him off before he could continue his tangent. “What does white mean in your hair?”</p><p>In his hair?</p><p>“Uh. I uh...I-I don’t know.” He picked at a loose thread on his cuffs. “W-When was it white?”</p><p>“Just now. Before you sat down.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>He couldn’t remember.</p><p>(why couldn’t he remember?)</p><p>"It...um...I…" His usually unstoppable mouth was failing him. Something was wrong with him. White? His hair was never white! Something was <b>terribly</b> wrong with him. There was something in his head.</p><p>(get it out get it out get it out)</p><p>"--tlejuice? Beetlejuice!"</p><p>"Huh?" There were arms wrapped around him. Someone was rubbing his back in soothing circles. Someone else was running fingers through his hair. Someone was whispering to him--</p><p>
  <em> obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey </em>
</p><p>(no No NO <b>NO</b>)</p><p>He jerked out of the confining (comforting) grasp. He needed to go, to be alone, to get his head together!</p><p>But then who would tell him what to do?</p><p>
  <em> he needed to be told what to do </em>
</p><p>
  <em>obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey </em>
</p><p>(No NO <b>NO </b> <b> <em>NO</em> </b>)</p><p>What was he supposed to do?</p><p>
  <em> whatever they asked of him </em>
</p><p>(getitoutgetitoutgetitoutgetitoutgetitout)</p><p>
  <em> OBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEY </em>
</p><p>"S-Something's in my-"</p><p>
  <b> <em>OBEY</em> </b>
</p><p>(his head hurt)</p><p>He was on the roof.</p><p>When did he get on the roof?</p><p>"Beej?"</p><p>He turned towards the basically-door-to-the-roof window. Lydia was there, with a worried look on her face. (they were all so worried all the time) "H-Hey, Lyds! What's up?" He was fine. He could fake this. He could fake anything.</p><p>(his head hurt a lot)</p><p>"Beej, what's going on?"</p><p>"Wha-hah, what? Nothing!" The look he received could have stripped paint. He swallowed a lump in his throat. "Not buyin' it, huh?"</p><p>"Not even a little." Lydia sat on the stoop by the chimney, arms crossed. "Talk."</p><p>
  <b> <em>OBEY</em> </b>
</p><p>"There's something in my head." Who was saying that? He couldn't focus. He couldn't stop. He couldn't-- "I...I can't...I can't <b>not</b> . I can't say <b> <em>no</em> </b>."</p><p>The glare was gone, replaced with worry. No, not worry.</p><p>Fear.</p><p>Lydia was afraid.</p><p>(of him)</p><p>
  <em> obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey </em>
</p><p>He couldn't stop. "Th-there's someone...whispering...at me. There's something <em>in</em> me and I need to get it out but I <b>can't</b>. I'm not... I'm not <b><em>allowed</em></b>."</p><p>"'Allowed'? Beej--"</p><p>"I-I don't even know I'm doing it! Someone just tells me to do something and I do! I think? I don't remember!"</p><p>"Beej--"</p><p>"I can't stop, Lyds! It just happens and I come back but my head hurts and it's <b>in</b> me and I don't know what to do! TELL ME WHAT TO DO!"</p><p>"BEETLEJUICE, STOP!"</p><p>
  <b> <em>OBEY</em> </b>
</p><p>There were arms around him. Someone was rubbing his back in soothing circles. Someone else was running their fingers through his hair. A familiar sound of rustling newspaper was coming from his side. </p><p>(his head hurt)</p><p>He forced his eyes open. It was a lot harder than it should have been. His head was resting against Adam's shoulder (he'd recognize that plaid anywhere). It was Adam's hand tracing patterns on his back. It was Barbara's fingers in his hair. It was Lydia leaning against his legs. Looking around (also hard) he saw Delia reading some book, and Charles messing with something in the kitchen. </p><p>(safe)</p><p>(together)</p><p>(with him)</p><p>
  <em> obey </em>
</p><p>(nonononono)</p><p>He should be running the hell away. He should be killing the guy who did this to him. He should be <em> burning everything to the ground </em>.</p><p>But Adam's shoulder was stupidly comfortable, and Lydia's back was warm, and Barbara's fingers hadn't stopped their soothing strokes on his head. (he was so tired)</p><p>He didn't want to ruin this. He's ruined so many things, some of them even halfway-decent. He can't let this be one of them. This is <b>good</b>.</p><p>(too good for him)</p><p>"'m sorry…" He mumbled. The hand on his back paused, startled, but then resumed its comforting circles.</p><p>"This is not something you need to apologise for," Adam said firmly. "Nothing about this is your fault."</p><p>"That man with the camera crew did this," Barbara added. "This is on him. You're the victim here, Beetlejuice. Not the problem."</p><p>Comfort. Validation. Understanding. Acceptance.</p><p>(what was he supposed to do with that?)</p><p>Charles emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. "Now that we know there is a problem, the next step is what do we do from here? Mr. Juice?"</p><p>"Uh." Now they were asking his opinion? He's never going to get used to this family. (to being treated like a person) "Jus'...just don't tell me what...what to do. I can't...I can't <b>not</b> . I can't say <b>no</b>." Barbara's fingers tightened in his hair. Oh yeah. They were always going on about 'consent' or whatever. He guessed this was part of that whole thing.</p><p>Charles' face was doing the scrunch-frown of considering. "Perhaps phrasing things as requests? 'Would you mind' or 'when you could' and such?"</p><p>
  <em> obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey </em>
</p><p>He gave a tired shrug. "Sure. I guess."</p><p>"Hmm," Charles' face remained scrunched. "Mr. Juice, would you mind handing me that newspaper?"</p><p>
  <b> <em>OBEY</em></b>
</p><p>He was standing in front of Charles.</p><p>
  <em> happy to... </em>
</p><p>(his head hurt)</p><p>
  <em> hadn't he just said not to do that? </em>
</p><p>Charles had a look of shock on his face as he let the newspaper slip from his hands. "I-I-I'm so sorry! I thought that would be enough of a request, not a command, I-"</p><p>Gentle hands were guiding him back to the couch. He was very glad to sit down before his legs gave out. He was so tired.</p><p>
  <em> he had knelt before someone before. never again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>but it felt right</em>
</p><p>"'Would you mind' is <b>not</b> enough," Delia said shakily. </p><p>"No," Charles agreed. "No, it is not. I'm so sorry." </p><p>He flapped a hand at the breather. "'S fine…"</p><p>Charles shook his head. "It’s not, but thank you. We can test this again later. When you're rested."</p><p>Lydia squeezed his leg. "We'll figure this out, Beej," she whispered. "I promise."</p><p>(he believed her)</p><p>
  <em> like a fool </em>
</p><p>His eyes closed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Beetlejuice Again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes opened. He was still on the living room sofa, but there was no Adam-Pillow under his head, just a boring normal throw pillow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(he should throw it. it’s in the name!)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His feet were elevated though. Glancing down, he saw Delia, his feet in her lap, reading a different book (maybe? the cover was a different color at least.) her hand resting on his ankle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Casual contact with a demon. There had to be a cult for that, right? He should make one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a shuffling sound coming towards him and a familiar green dress came into view. He looked up at Barbara’s kind face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sleep well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gave a non-committal grunt. She smiled and flapped her hands at him. “Lift up for a sec?” With a raised eyebrow, he forced his head and shoulders up off the throw pillow. The ghost squeezed herself between his upper body and the couch, then gave his chest a pat. “Okay, you can settle back now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head was in her lap. (she </span>
  <b>wanted</b>
  <span> him there)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is not the first time I’ve been sandwiched between two women, I’ll have you know,” he mumbled. “Though there was a lot more thrusting then. Plus the couch was covered in--” Barbara put a hand on his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No thank you, Beetlejuice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorted. Still so vanilla. But he quieted, nonetheless. Her hand lifted from his mouth and began stroking his forehead and hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Couldn’t he just stay here? Why did stuff have to keep getting in the way of figuring out this new life he’d found himself in? (the extra touches were nice though. that could stay.) Stupid youtube guy with his stupid...whatever it was that’d started this whisper in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(he should just kill him.</span>
  <em>
    <span> that would make him feel better. a nice brutal </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>murder</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That would require getting up, and like hell was that happening any time soon. He just needed to focus. If he could just get a grip on the whisper, he could yank it out no problem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(he could? how did he know that?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But focusing was haaaaard. And boring. And tiring. He was already (still) tired from whatever this was. He didn’t have the mental energy to bully his brain into holding on to one thought for a prolonged period of time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, he was just laying on the couch with two beautiful women (who cared about him) and going back to sleep was an even more boring prospect. Fuck it. Might as well give it a try.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closed his eyes and relaxed. Delia’s hand was lightly brushing over his ankle. Barbara’s fingers hadn’t stopped running through his hair. The remote was most likely the thing poking into his side from where he’d hidden it between the couch cushions. He tried to let the physical sensations drift away from his perception, and turn his focus inward. (but he </span>
  <b>liked</b>
  <span> the touches)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shut </span>
  <b>up</b>
  <span>. Focus. Find the thing that doesn't belong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(head hurts)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(is Lydia scared of me?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(gotta eat those roaches in the kitchen before Delia freaks)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(they're too good for me, they have to know that)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(bet Adam's working on that new model-project-thing)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(one day they'll all realize what a nuisance I am and they'll leave me)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(this thong is riding up)</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There you are, you bastard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reached out to the chain of constant whispers and </span>
  <em>
    <span>grabbed</span>
  </em>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>OBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEYOBEY</span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>He was floating. Free. Unchained. Unbothered. Nothing to worry him, because no decision was his to </span><em><span>mess up</span></em><span>. He could just </span><em><span>obey</span></em><span> and </span><em><span>do</span></em> <em><span>what he was told</span></em><span>. Any repercussions that came of his actions were </span><em><span>out of his hands</span></em><span>. He was just a tool. The instrument. The </span><em><span>slave</span></em><span>. He could only </span><em><span>obey</span></em><span>. He never needed to fear </span><em><span>being alone</span></em><span>. There would always be someone there to </span><em><span>give him orders</span></em><span>. He could just relax in blissful </span><em><span>obedience</span></em><span>, waiting for a </span><em><span>command</span></em><span>. Waiting to </span><em><span>obey</span></em><span>. Waiting to </span><em><span>kneel-</span></em><em><span>nonoNoNO</span></em><b><em>NO</em></b><span>!</span></p><p>
  <span>Before his eyes had even fully opened, he was on his feet, teeth bared. Barbara and Delia both jerked back at the abrupt change in position. That shock turned into all-too-familiar worry at the sight of the fiery shade of the demon's hair, which had been a very pale green not a moment before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stood, chest heaving, eyes darting around to identify the threat, but there was just a peaceful living room. (there was something very wrong with him)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beetlejuice?” The jolt of having his name said by a living person startled him out of his undirected rage and he whirled around to face the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of the women flinched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fear extinguished the anger like water on flame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(they're afraid of me)</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>(good?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I…" He looked down, noticing the aggressive position he was holding and forced himself to lower his shoulders from where they had risen to his ears. He unclenched his fists and made a point to calm his (unnecessary, but somehow comforting) breathing. "...s-sorry…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barbara opened her mouth to say something but paused with a look of consideration. She then cleared her throat and started again, gesturing at the abruptly vacated spot on the couch. “Beej, would you like to sit down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tensed, waiting for the jump, the loss of time, the headache, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>whispers</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they didn’t come, his shoulders slumped in relief and he took the offered spot because </span>
  <b>he</b>
  <span> wanted to. As he sank back into the couch, Barbara placed her hand on his leg and rubbed it soothingly. (it was the </span>
  <b>casualness</b>
  <span> of the touches that drove him crazy. he was used to being sudden with his affection ‘cause he had to get while the getting was good. this was different though. this was just </span>
  <b>offered</b>
  <span>)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like to tell us what just...startled you so badly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh.” He scratched the back of his neck. How to put it...He shrugged. “You ever have a train of thought that accidentally leads you to thinking of something that pisses you right the fuck off?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” replied Barbara at the same time as Delia’s “Yes.” At Beetlejuice and Barbara’s stares, she shrugged. “I’m a woman of many passions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both specters snorted with laughter. Beetlejuice was remembering when Delia had gotten way into a dragon-breeding phone game. </span>
  <b>Way</b>
  <span> into it. There had been </span>
  <b>charts</b>
  <span>. </span>
  <b>Excel sheets</b>
  <span>. (she had bred a black-and-white dragon and named it Lawrence. he hadn't known what to do, so he'd eaten her charts.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barbara was remembering Delia's short-lived attempt to bake vegan gluten-free bread. The experiment had ended with two broken bread machines, a clogged garbage disposal, and a mass of theoretical 'dough' that even Beetlejuice had refused to eat. The next day, Delia had gone out and bought </span>
  <b>another</b>
  <span> breadmaker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'Passionate' was to Delia, what 'deep' was to the ocean. Technically accurate, while still using the vaguest term possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What thought made you angry?” she asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The laughter faded. He felt his face scrunch up and he knew-he just </span>
  <b>knew</b>
  <span>-his hair was turning some embarrassing color. How was he supposed to tell them, or anyone, what it was that had him all pissed? How was he supposed to explain wanting to </span>
  <em>
    <span>obey</span>
  </em>
  <span> while also wanting to </span>
  <em>
    <span>disintegrate anyone who dared to give him an order?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I uh…” He coughed. Took a deep breath. Fidgeted. Bit his lip. Picked at his nails. Fidgeted more. Thought about just disappearing somewhere, </span>
  <b>anywhere</b>
  <span>, else. Maybe the roof, maybe Dubai. But he didn’t-couldn’t-because throughout his whole wriggly brainstorm, Barbara hadn’t taken her hand off his leg. Delia hadn’t gotten off of the couch to do something else. They had stayed with him, waiting patiently for his answer, like it mattered to them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(what if it does?)</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>don’t be an idiot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>(but what IF?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is it just hard to say, or is something actually stopping you?" Barbara asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(dontpanicdontpanicdontpanic)</span>
</p><p><span>He couldn't have </span><b>another</b><span> curse on him, could he? If there was </span><b><em>one more</em></b> <b><em>thing</em></b><span> he was unable to say, he was gonna </span><em><span>kill everyone in sight</span></em><span>-</span></p><p>
  <span>"Beej?" </span>
  <em>
    <span>they would suffer. they would all suffer, like he had suffered. it was right. it was fair. their blood staining the carpet, their screams the most beautiful accompaniment to the torment he would </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>inflict</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> on the person who had </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>done this to him</em>
  </b>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p><span>"Beetlejuice?" </span><em><span>once.</span></em> <span>"Beetlejuice?!" </span><b><em>twice.</em></b></p><p>
  <span>"Lawrence, wake up!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gasped, wrenching himself from the litany of rage echoing in his head. Barbara was kneeling in front of him, hands on his shoulders. It looked like she had been shaking him. Delia was hovering behind the woman with a scared look in her eyes, holding her book close to her chest like a shield. As his eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings, (safesafesafe) Barbara relaxed and brought her hands up from his shoulders to his face, brushing her thumbs over his cheeks and looking him over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(he hadn't done it he didn't do it they were safe they were alive well not alive alive but not hurt he hadn't hurt them he wouldn't hurt them not now not anymore but what if he </span>
  <b>did</b>
  <span>--)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barbara took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. Then she pointed the demon's gaze to meet her own. "If you can talk about this," she said with all the firmness Barbara 2.0 could muster, "then you should. It doesn't have to be with me, or Delia, or anyone here. If there are Netherworld therapists, then you can go there. But you need to talk to someone who can understand what's going on, because I am getting </span>
  <b>scared</b>
  <span> for you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(for?)</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>of</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>(no. she said 'for')</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He mirrored her deep breath, then let it out, but aimed away from the ghost. (he knew how bad his breath was. he was proud of it.) He closed his eyes and tried to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>say</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. If they were disappointed at him, fine. Nothing he hadn't dealt with before. If they demanded he leave, well...fuck, he couldn't really disagree with them. "There. Is. </span>
  <b>Something</b>
  <span>. </span>
  <b>IN</b>
  <span> me. In my head. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>whispers</span>
  </em>
  <span> at me. Most of the time I don't notice but </span>
  <b>sometimes</b>
  <span>...like when someone tells me to do something, it…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Makes you angry?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No." He squeezed his eyes tighter. He couldn't say it, he </span>
  <b>couldn't</b>
  <span>. Admitting weakness was--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(FUCK IT)</span>
</p><p><span>"It makes me like it," he whispered. He could feel Barbara's fingers start to tremble as they smoothed the skin under his eyes. The couch cushion to his right dipped as Delia sat down beside him, her hand on his shoulder. "It...it makes</span><span> obeying </span><span>feel...</span><em><span>good</span></em><span>.</span><span> It makes me want to follow someone around and just...do everything for them. </span><span>Anything they want.</span> <span>Anything they ask.</span><span> And I </span><b>know</b><span> I shouldn't!" He opened his eyes but kept them fixed to his own lap. If he looked at them he would hide or burst into flames. "I'm not the following type! This isn't </span><b>me</b><span>! But then the whispers start and I-I just </span><em><span>do it</span></em><span>. I </span><em><span>obey</span></em><span>.</span><span> And I </span><b><em>hate</em></b><em><span> it</span></em><span>." </span></p><p>
  <span>Barbara's hands gently tilted his face up to look at her. His eyes were still focused on the couch, but slowly, they lifted to meet hers. "What happened to you," she said. "Was not fair. It was a cruel violation, and you are </span>
  <b>allowed</b>
  <span> to be angry about that!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head. "It's not </span>
  <b>mine</b>
  <span>. Me being pissed might...I dunno, feed it, but it isn't </span>
  <b>me</b>
  <span>. I'm mad it happened, yeah, but it's done." He shrugged. "You stick around long enough you learn not to dwell on that kind of thing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delia's grip on his shoulder twitched. "This has happened to you </span>
  <b>before</b>
  <span>?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe? Demon-Binding was all the rage right before the Dark Ages." He scratched his head as he tried to bully his stupid feelings into plain New English. "I know I know how to get this outta me. But I don't know how I know I know, ya know?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a moment of silence as the two women tried to decipher that sentence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nnnnooooo…?” Barbara guessed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delia counted the ‘know’s with a look of concentration. “Wait. So...You </span>
  <b>can</b>
  <span> get it out, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I think so. It’s just a pain in the ass. I don’t...I don’t focus well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” Delia shot up from the couch. “I wanted to finish reading to get it right, but I think we’ll just go with our feels on this one!” She dashed from the living room, leaving Beetlejuice and Barbara befuddled in her wake. The two specters exchanged a shrug as Barbara returned to sitting on Beetlejuice’s left side of the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Other than the ritual...uh...residue? How are you feeling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged. “Fine, I guess? Tired. Bored of being tired.” He glanced around. “Where’s Lyds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“School.”</span>
</p><p><span>“What?! But it’s Sunday! Wait-” He blinked a few times in realization. “I slept through the</span> <b>whole day</b><span>?!</span></p><p>
  <span>Barbara patted the demon’s back sympathetically. “You needed the rest. You probably still do. Even without the whole ritual business, you were still sick for a good week. It takes time to recover from any illness.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not for me…” he grumbled as he slouched back onto the couch. “Man...Lyds and I were gonna watch this horror movie history thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You still can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, it’s like three hours long. Lydia always goes on about ‘proper sleep schedules’ and ‘not skipping school’ and junk like that. It’ll have to wait ‘til next weekend.” Beetlejuice stuck out his striped tongue and blew a raspberry. “Lame.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barbara ruffled his hair fondly. "How very responsible of you both." She giggled at the demon's response of fake-vomiting noises. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Responsible?! Me?! Oh, how far I've fallen!" Beetlejuice flopped dramatically onto the ghost's lap. She managed to dodge a flamboyantly-gesturing elbow from clipping her chin at the expense of getting a suspender clasp in the ribs. "I used to be feared! The dead would tremble at the sound of my name! Well-" He dropped the theatrical voice. "Most people who know my name tremble at the sound of someone saying it for very good reasons."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice.” Barbara said in a sing-song voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wriggled in her lap. “Such a </span>
  <b>tease</b>
  <span>! You get your husband lap-happy with that voice?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aaaaand we’re done.” She poked the soft spot below his ribs until he sat back up and crossed her legs to deter any more lap-pillowing. He whined, but complied, rubbing his poked side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have the boniest fingers,” the demon grumbled. “They’re like little daggers!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of hurried footsteps preceded Delia’s return to the living room. She held in her arms--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, crap…” Beetlejuice sighed as Deila set three different crystals on the coffee table; a white one in the shape of a pyramid, a blue-and-purple sphere, and a brown one that just looked like a boring rock. After arranging them in some inscrutable pattern, she crouched on the opposite side and stared at him through each crystal in turn. She then stood, squinting between the rocks, to the demon on the couch, and back again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which ones are those?” asked Barbara, because she was a nice person, as opposed to Beetlejuice, who was trying to merge with the couch cushions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delia beamed. “I’m so glad you asked! The purple one is Fluorite, it’s for promoting peace, bliss, and calming. The brown one is Bronzite, it’s for grounding, protection, and stability. And this white one is called </span>
  <em>
    <span>Phantom</span>
  </em>
  <span> quartz! I almost brought it out just for the name, but it also aids in growth, transformation, and evolution!” She grabbed the book she had been reading before and flipped through it. “I think...given your symptoms...the Bronzite is the right one for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beetlejuice was slunk back into the couch so much, his chin was meeting his chest, and his feet stuck out to almost the edge of the coffee table. He gave Delia a flat look, and sat up. “Look, Deli.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Delia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever. You know that these are bullshit, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She arched an eyebrow at him. “Says the </span>
  <b>demon</b>
  <span>? On a couch with one of the two </span>
  <b>ghosts</b>
  <span> in this house?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opened his mouth to argue, paused, closed it, and stuck out a hand. “Gimme the rock.” She did so, with a satisfied smirk. “All right, so...how does this work?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well! All beings give off unique vibrations and energy. Crystals can resonate with those vibrations and amplify the good ones, while dampening the bad ones! You see, in Ancient Egypt--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I mean, what do I do with it? Do I eat it…? Is it a buttplug…?”</span>
</p><p><span>“NO!” Delia yelled, wincing in a way that told Beetlejuice that:<br/>
A.</span>Delia knew what a buttplug was (not surprising, but it was good to have that out of the way), <br/>
<span>Æ. Delia knew what a buttplug felt like, and,<br/>
</span><span>B. Delia knew what a </span><em><span>bad</span></em><span> buttplug felt like. </span></p><p>
  <span>All info he added to his list of ‘Things Delia Has Definitely Been Down For’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nonononono. Jus--You can just keep it near you and think positively about both you, and the power of the Bronzite, and it’ll work wonders!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Riiiiiight…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barbara swooped in with a question about the fluorite like the saving grace she was and Beetlejuice relaxed back into the couch, rock in hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(smooth)</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>(shut up)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Letting the boring conversation about magic rocks wash over him, he felt his eyelids growing heavy again. Which </span>
  <b>sucked</b>
  <span>. He had </span>
  <b>just</b>
  <span> woken up! He couldn’t be tired </span>
  <b>again</b>
  <span>! Yet with every blink, the room changed around him. One blink had Barbara at his side, the next had a lack of Barbara, but the addition of a blanket over him. The blink after that had Lydia curled up with a textbook in the opposite armchair. She glanced up at him, noticed he was awake, and gave him one of those sad smiles he did his best to banish from her face. He wanted to do something ridiculous to cheer her up, but he was just so tired…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Obeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobeyobey</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes closed.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Barbara</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Barbara opened the door to the attic. While Charles and Delia had offered the master bedroom back, the ghost couple had declined. It had been a very sweet offer, but they didn’t actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> sleep like the living couple, and the attic was perfectly suitable for their modest tastes, made even more modest after their deaths. (Plus, the first time they had ever seen the new owners of their house, they had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>in</span>
  </em>
  <span> that bedroom in a rather...unforgettable way.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Besides, the attic was where their new ‘life’ had truly begun. That made it homey in a way the rest of the house no longer was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adam was sitting on the old couch they had wrangled upstairs through a combination of telekinesis and phasing through floors to get to its new resting place. (The old bed in the corner, on the other hand, had simply been *snapped* into place by Beetlejuice. He still refused to say where he’d gotten it from.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the sound of the door, Adam startled, and quickly (and obviously) hid the book he was reading. When he saw it was his wife, he relaxed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Worried I was Beetlejuice?” she asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A little, yeah. Besides us, he’s the only one who doesn’t knock.” He pulled the book back out of its ‘hiding’ and continued from where he’d stuck his finger to mark the page. The book was called,</span>
  <em>
    <span> Resonate With The Stars: A New Guide to the New World of Emotions</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He had borrowed it from Delia, who had whole shelves of help-books, self and otherwise. There was only one chapter that had any of the information he was looking for, but Delia had promised to get something more specific from the internet. It had already been ordered and was just a few days away from their sleepy little town.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That book was called </span>
  <em>
    <span>Loving Someone with PTSD: A Practical Guide to Understanding and Connecting with Your Partner after Trauma. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t...</span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> their situation but...it wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> their situation either. Adam was hoping that having an entire book on the subject, rather than just a chapter or two would give him a bit more insight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barbara settled into her husband’s side and began to read over his shoulder. “Anything helpful?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing that we haven’t already read.” He reached the end of the chapter and shut the book, taking off his reading glasses with a sigh. “It’s all the same sorts of things. ‘Be there’, ‘Be patient’, ‘Don’t push for answers if they don’t seem ready to give them’, that sort of thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good advice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, but there has to be something else we can do!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barbara rested her head on Adam’s shoulder. “He’s not a crib, honey. You can’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>fix</span>
  </em>
  <span> him.” She gave his cheek a gentle kiss. “Not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> are that good at restoring.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want to be,” he said wistfully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. Me too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just so </span>
  <em>
    <span>frustrating</span>
  </em>
  <span>! I feel like there’s something more I could be doing! Something better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re doing all we can, Adam. We’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>being there</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That means a lot, especially for him. You know how much he hates being alone, how much he appreciates us just...sitting with him. We’re helping. Even if it doesn’t seem like much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. But even with that, I feel like I should be doing more.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barbara sat up. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adam sighed and nibbled at his lip. “When...when Beetlejuice was first getting sick, I was fine with being there for him. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked</span>
  </em>
  <span> cuddling up on the couch with him. But after that whole ritual business up here I…” He hesitated, a look of shame on his face. “I got scared.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Adam…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>of</span>
  </em>
  <span> Beetlejuice! At least, I don’t think so. Just...in general. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> love where we are in our lives right now. Well-” he corrected, “Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>lives</span>
  </em>
  <span> exactly, but-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know what you mean. We’ve come a long way from our first ten-year-plan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They shared a small laugh at the remembrance of where they’d thought their lives would be by now. A flower garden, a minivan, and way, </span>
  <em>
    <span>way</span>
  </em>
  <span> too many hobbies. Now they couldn’t go outside to see if the flowers were still there, they couldn’t imagine trying to drive Charles’ expensive fancy car, and they had far too much </span>
  <em>
    <span>life</span>
  </em>
  <span> to enjoy to bother with more than a few choice hobbies. They were happy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m scared that all of this can be hurt so easily,” Adam whispered, as if even saying it aloud would bring it about. “I mean, this guy took down Beetlejuice, </span>
  <em>
    <span>our</span>
  </em>
  <span> Beetlejuice! And when Beej turned on us, there wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> we could do! We couldn’t even protect </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lydia!</span>
  </em>
  <span> If we can’t protect any of them--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> protect them,” Barbara said firmly. “We are the Maitlands 2.0 and we </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span>. We’re inexperienced, sure. But not helpless. Once Beej gets his strength back--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What if he doesn’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Why wouldn’t he?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know!” Adam began gesturing wildly. “I don’t know how any of this works! None of us do! But he keeps passing out, and if he weren’t a demon, I would take him to a hospital!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When he woke up he did say a little more about how he’s feeling.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adam’s panic dwindled a little. “Oh? What did he say?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He said something was </span>
  <em>
    <span>in</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. In his head. And it whispered to him.” Barbara took Adam’s hand for comfort. “He said it was subtle unless someone told him to do something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s when his hair goes white.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nodded, then swallowed. “He said it-” She squeezed her husband’s hand. Noticing her unease, he took her other hand as well, and scooched closer. She let out a breath and closed her eyes. “He said the whispers forced him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> obeying.” She felt his hands flinch in hers and painfully understood his reaction. There was something so inherently </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span> about forcing enjoyment of anything to anybody, but to have it be such a manipulative subject to ‘enjoy’ was disgusting on a visceral level.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To have it be </span>
  <em>
    <span>Beetlejuice </span>
  </em>
  <span>who was forced to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> was disgusting on a personal level.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The demon had only returned months ago, three and a half months after ‘The Incident’. It had taken a while to get used to his presence as a ‘housemate’ rather than ‘threat’. What had taken no time at all, was learning how </span>
  <em>
    <span>stubborn</span>
  </em>
  <span> he could be. It had taken a week to get him to stop sleeping on the roof, and another two months after that to get him to bathe. If he didn’t want to do something, he just </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and it had taken a long, continuous amount of cajoling from also-stubborn people to change his mind on even basic things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Going from that, to immediate obedience in an instant was such a shift it made Barbara feel actually sick at the thought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The...other...connotations didn’t help either.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That...</span>
  <em>
    <span>bastard</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Adam said with uncharacteristic venom. ‘How </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare</span>
  </em>
  <span> he--how dare </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>! How </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare </span>
  </em>
  <span>they do such a horrific thing! To a </span>
  <em>
    <span>person</span>
  </em>
  <span>! I hope they-I hope-” He spluttered incoherent sounds of anger. “I hope they proceed </span>
  <em>
    <span>directly</span>
  </em>
  <span> to the Netherworld! No stops, no goodbyes, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>go</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barbara leaned her head into Adam’s chest. There was something very comforting about being angry together. She knew the man (Jayden, was it?) had been loaded into a police car with numerous of his former coworkers vowing to testify against him, and that was a soothing thought against the rising anger. However, she also knew that the only charges they could actually make were breaking and entering, assault, and possibly an attempted murder. There was no way to explain the torment of their resident demon, nor the spillover that had affected the two ghosts. Not without sounding...less than credible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She could feel Adam still shaking with anger, and wrapped him in an embrace, which he returned. “That won’t do any good right now,” she said soothingly. Barbara knew the power of anger. She had set that horrid spellbook aflame with her anger and she’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. But she didn’t want to burn anything now, so before the rage got its grip, she let it go. If she needed that rage again, it would still be there, and she would use it to </span>
  <em>
    <span>incinerate anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> that threatened her loved ones. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it did her no good now. She had read the same books as Adam, with the same advice: Be patient. Be available, but don’t hover. Don’t push if they don’t want to talk, but if/when they do want to talk, listen. Try to keep to a normal routine. Don’t make blaming statements. Most of all, BE THERE.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knew that was all they could do right now. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> that. But like her husband, she too wanted to somehow make it all better. More than anything, Barbara wanted to reach into Beetlejuice’s head and </span>
  <em>
    <span>yank</span>
  </em>
  <span> whatever vile thing was in there and torch it to ashes. Then burn the ashes. Then-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shook her head to clear it. Not helpful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adam released her with a sigh, looking calmer. “Thanks, hon. I needed that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barbara smiled. “Me too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should get some rest; you’ve been watching over him all day. I know he told us we don’t need sleep anymore but-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you’re right. I am a little tired.” She walked towards the bed and paused. Then turned back to Adam. “He’s downstairs on the couch right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adam nodded, looking apprehensive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Delia is with him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, he turned, and shook his head. “No. I do. And I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She gave him a smile and waved as he turned back to the stairs. His footsteps were the last thing she heard as she pulled the blankets over her and closed her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Getting to sleep took her a little longer that night.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Adam</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When Adam reached the living room, Delia was just finished turning out the lights. She gave him one of her beaming smiles, then pointed at the couch. “You just missed him,” she said softly. “He woke up, looked around for a bit then muttered something about either ‘grasshoppers’ or ‘Volkswagens’ and went back to sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah. Thanks. I’ll watch over him now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.” Delia turned towards the stairs, but paused, then turned back, studying the ghost before her with searching eyes. She had been doing that more and more lately. Giving people piercing looks and squinting at nothing. “Adam...” she said. “...I think he’s going to be okay. I know you’re worried. We all are. But too much worry isn’t good for your spirit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adam blinked at her. Where had that come from? “I uh...I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> a spirit….?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nodded sagely. “Then it’s even more important, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He returned her nod, less out of actual agreement as much as quiet confusion, as she turned back to the stairs and went to bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What was that about?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, the ghost turned to the source of his current worries. Beetlejuice was between sitting down and laying down in an awkward slumped position. It looked like someone had wrapped a blanket around him, but it had fallen down around his knees. His face twitched in his sleep and his right hand was closed in a tight fist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adam felt the tension in his shoulders relax as a small smile came unbidden to his face. An old high school friend of his had once owned a ferret. He had shown Adam how it slept one time, its little face all squished and its paws and long body twitching. Funny how looking at Beetlejuice now reminded him of that ferret. He did have to admit, to himself if no one else, that Beetlejuice could be adorable at times. Not that Adam would ever say that to his face. Would that be considered an insult to a demon?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, that can’t be comfortable,” the ghost said softly. He gently tilted the sleeping demon towards a more horizontal position, lifting his legs onto the couch and tucking the blanket back around him. Before he could stop himself, Adam found his hand smoothing the muddy-green hair away from Beej’s forehead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They could have lost him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hand began to tremble as he continued brushing the demon’s hair back from his face. They could have lost him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> lost him. No Netherworld, no vision-quest, no possibility for a sequel, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Gone in every way that mattered. The body of a demon in a black-and-white suit may have remained to torment them, but everything that made Beetlejuice, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Beetlejuice</span>
  </em>
  <span>, would have been wiped away. The catalyst of one of the most amazing changes in his life, Barbara’s life, Lydia’s life, </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone’s</span>
  </em>
  <span>…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chained by strange magic, hair bone-white, and eyes blank.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If it hadn’t been for Charles coming home right then...if it hadn’t been for Delia seeing what everyone else was missing...if it hadn’t been for Barbara awakening an ability they hadn’t even considered…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Hey…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Startled, Adam looked up to see Lydia on the staircase. He hurriedly pulled his hand away from the sleeping demon’s head and waved. “Hey yourself. What are you doing up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The teen shrugged and walked quietly down the rest of the stairs. “Couldn’t sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Did you try counting sheep?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lydia curled into the big armchair in the corner, propping her chin onto her pajama-clad knees. They had little bat and gravestone patterns on them. “I can get to sleep fine. It's staying asleep that’s the problem.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nightmares. There had been a bunch of nightmares in this house after ‘The Incident’. Unsurprising, seeing how Lydia and Charles went into the Netherworld and saw what they had described as ‘a well choreographed ensemble of gruesomely deceased people’. Just their description of the Netherworld had been enough to put a damper on the Maitlands’ technically-unnecessary sleep. Delia had spent the week afterwards with more coffee in her stomach than food.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But that had been then. Now…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adam got up from beside the couch and settled on the other armchair in the room, facing Lydia. There were many things he could say: Play up the responsible-parent role and urge her to go back to bed. Be the fun-dad-figure he so enjoyed and get her to crack a smile, if only in exasperation with his truly terrible puns. Offer to make her a midnight snack, maybe even hot cocoa, as a comforting protector, one who can chase the bad thoughts away with a soothing presence. It was no exaggeration to say that Adam had prepared for this kind of conversation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh yes. He had prepared his whole life for this situation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then he died.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All that time, all that preparation, all for nothing. Because he had been afraid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He and Barbara both had been so...timid. So nervous of doing something wrong, they had instead done nothing at all. But then, they had upgraded. Maitlands 2.0.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So why was he still letting himself put things off? Why was he still </span>
  <em>
    <span>preparing</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really looked</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the teen before him. The bags under the eyes, more visible without the layer of makeup she applied every morning. The restless fingers, plucking at the threads and fuzz on her pajamas. The messy hair, likely from tossing and turning on her pillow. And her expression. Past the tiredness, past the teenage above-it-all facade, he could see it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shame.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adam tossed away all of his preparations.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know,” he said quietly. “When I first got the hang of possession, I was pretty proud of myself. Ghost powers! It was like something out of a kids book.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lydia quirked a small smile. “It is pretty cool.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, and then with the whole, “wedding” thing,” he raised his hands to exaggerate the air quotes. “I managed to get a hold of an entire skeleton audience! Barbara said she had tried and hadn’t managed it, so, I felt even better about myself for that one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lydia’s smile was even smaller now, but softer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And then...then the ritual of those ghost-hunters happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lydia’s smile vanished.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can do a lot of things as a ghost. But I…” He shook his head. “I couldn’t do anything. And that...that terrified me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lydia had apparently found something fascinating on her knees. Adam didn’t begrudge her the deflection. He was focusing very hard on her right elbow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s going to be okay,” Adam said, echoing Delia’s earlier reassurance. “He went through a horrible, traumatic experience, it’s true. But he lived--well...he got through it. And he has us, all of us, to be there for him. And we also need to take a moment to realise that...</span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> went through a traumatic event as well.” He reached out and put a gentle hand on Lydia’s shoulder. He could feel a slight tremor running through the teen, but she didn’t shake him off. “People broke into our home and hurt people that we care about. We’re not okay. And that’s...annoyingly normal. It’s okay, to...</span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> be okay right now. You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>allowed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to feel hurt, and need comforting.” He ducked his head to catch Lydia’s eye, and gave her a shaky smile. “I know I do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that admission, the teen uncurled from the armchair and wrapped her ghost-dad in a hug. Adam gratefully accepted and returned the embrace, rubbing Lydia’s back in the same soothing circles he had used to calm Beetlejuice earlier that day. “We’re gonna be okay too, kiddo. It’ll take a bit, but we will.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a fist clenched in the back of his shirt that spoke to some disbelief about that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adam waited. There was something else on his girl’s mind, and if it took her a while to get the words in order, he wouldn’t rush her. She had been doing quite well in school, despite the change in her home life. If she was too tired to go tomorrow, he would happily write her excuse note himself. This was more important.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I </span>
  <em>
    <span>supported</span>
  </em>
  <span> them…” he heard her whisper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “You supported them when they were making a show you enjoyed. You never supported them breaking into your house.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But I was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span> when they first showed up! It was exciting, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked</span>
  </em>
  <span> them!” The teen burrowed her face deeper into Adam’s shoulder. “Even when I told them to leave, I should have done it </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span>! I should have- I should have said something more!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hurt to hear his own worries said back to him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> could be ashamed of what he had-or-hadn’t done, but not Lydia. None of this was her fault. What more could she have possibly done--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> how that felt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lydia, look at me.” She pulled away from the dampened patch on his shoulder and looked somewhere around Adam’s chin. “I may not always understand how you’re feeling. But in this, I do. I really do. You want it to be your fault, because then it means there was something you could've done. But some things are just...out of our control. It doesn't mean you’re at fault. You aren’t responsible for other people doing horrible things. It wasn’t your fault.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “It wasn’t our fault.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time he almost believed it.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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